


Mortals and Fools

by Piano_Padawan



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga), Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crime Fighting, Detectives, Divergence from Death Note Plot, Han is Han About It, Kylo is Kira, Multi, Reylo - Freeform, Romance, Shinigami, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-02-28 15:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13273917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piano_Padawan/pseuds/Piano_Padawan
Summary: Frustrated by the inefficient law enforcement in a city plagued by crime, Ben Solo takes justice into his own hands when he finds a strange notebook enabling him to kill a person simply by writing their name. His killing of criminals earns him anonymous fame as the controversial “Kylo Ren”, regarded as a mass murderer by some and a savior by others. When Kylo’s killing spree gains the attention of an elusive detective known only as The Scavenger, Ben is ensnared in a deadly game of wits of which neither he nor his foe can foresee the end.Follows some aspects of the actual plot of Death Note up to a point, but with major canon divergence. Character traits adhere mostly to Star Wars. All relevant themes from Death Note are explained in the story.Might be broken up into a series in which case I'll adjust the tags.





	1. Calling

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars or Death Note.  
> As stated in the summary, this fic follows the plot of Death Note up to a certain point but diverges in major ways. Also, characters don't fit exactly into their Death Note parallel. I tried to keep personalities as canon as I could in terms of Star Wars.

Ben had often wondered whether apathy was a virtue. Perhaps it could have subdued his curiosity, or better still, stemmed his desires once the curiosity was satisfied.

Regardless, if apathy was a virtue, it was one he did not possess. He was jaded, yes. After all, who could blame him? People said the world was progressing. It hadn’t taken Ben long to realize they were liars, or at best, hopelessly naïve. The evidence showed a trend of stagnancy with the threat of decay, a far cry from progress.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t care anymore. Quite the contrary, he cared too much…

And it was precisely this vice that brought him to the alley on a cloudless afternoon in November, searching for _something_ , he knew not yet what. He only knew that he needed it desperately.

 

Earlier that day, he’d been caught in the usual drudgery of class. Unsurprisingly, Advanced Composition 150 taught by an incompetent professor with a love for mundane drawling was neither intellectually stimulating nor amusing.

He was in his second year at the university, and so far, didn’t think much of it. In the worst of cases, people perceived his lack of enthusiasm as arrogance. Those who were more optimistic took it as proof of his unique intelligence, which they always traced back to his mother and uncle.

A number of irritating family friends had even assumed he was planning on using this “gift” to follow in their footsteps. Ben was appalled by the notion. Law as a profession, given the current state of things, revolted him. Admittedly, he’d considered it when he was younger. That was before his mother had explained to him what a plea bargain entailed and how a solid prosecution could be stalled by vague reasonable doubt. There was no sticking with the glamorized picture of a justice system which cut deals with crooks.

The sciences seemed slightly more promising and Ben had secured a place in several advanced engineering courses. However, a liberal arts education entailed “diversity”. Hence, he was stuck in a freshman-level English course, listening to his professor’s soporific lectures on grammar. Fortunately, Ben had a seat by the window, which allowed for ninety minutes of quality road-gazing.

Apart from the occasional stray cat, nothing interesting ever took place in the alley. It was a wonder that Ben still paid any attention to it. But there were exceptions to every rule.

A falling object made him jolt upright in his seat. He leaned closer to the window, squinting to distinguish what it was. There _was_ something there, something that stood out despite its every effort to be nondescript. It was black in color, so that the shape seemed to blend into the dimly lit street.

“Ben?”

The professor’s voice drew him away from his thoughts. Ben turned away from the window and scowled at the older man.

“Yes?” Ben said.

“Your composition,” the professor replied. “I’d assume you’ve finished it already, since our current discussion of the assignment seems to bore you.”

“I have, actually,” Ben said, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes.

“Would you care to share it?”

Ben sighed. He’d thought that at the university-level, professors would give up calling out distracted students, but apparently, a PhD didn’t place one above pettiness. Flipping open his notebook, he cleared his throat and read aloud:

“ _On the subject of natural rights: Any attempts to define a ‘natural right’ are superficial. In truth, humans aren’t bound to consider whether or not a certain power is rightfully theirs to wield, unless the gain is insignificant. We are too narrow-minded, too focused on what we believe we have to do to judge…”_

The professor gestured for him to stop and made a hackneyed comment about the value of attentiveness in class, but Ben’s thoughts were already elsewhere. He was looking out the window again, scanning the ground for what had fallen from the sky.

The practical part of him said it wasn’t worth his time. He was an intelligent young man, not a bored child prone to let curiosity get the better of them, but this was more than curiosity. Something was calling to him and, as ridiculous as it felt, he needed to answer it.

3:30 pm marked the end of classes for the day and the start of the weekend. Instead of heading straight to the metro, however, Ben slipped away from the crowds to the alley. There was no harm in taking a quick look, though he still felt like a fool.

The alley was littered with trash. A few crushed soda cans lay beside the dumpster. Old cigarette buds dotted the ground. But there was something else lying in the corner. Ben snatched it up.

It was a notebook. The cover was blank except for two words written along the top.

“ _Death Note_ ,” Ben read. He stared at the black notebook, somewhat disappointed, but what had he expected? Some kind of magic charm? Absurd, even for a child…

“Death Note,” he muttered again. “Whatever the hell that is.”

He glanced at the dumpster, then at the notebook. Maybe it had fallen from a window or been thrown out. Either way, it didn’t seem like anyone was searching for it. Tossing it in the dumpster made sense. Better to do that than add to the litter. Yet, he was loath to do so.

 _I must be losing it_ , he scolded himself on the train ride home. The notebook, the “Death Note”, he supposed, lay in his lap. He frowned at it. Maybe he _was_ losing his mind. It wouldn’t exactly be news to his family, what after the recent turn of events, but that was a separate problem.

He glanced up at the small television monitor on the train. It displayed the face of a stoic young man against the familiar mugshot backdrop. The news anchor was discussing a recent murder trial which had apparently resulted in an acquittal. The station logo flashed before the camera zoomed out to show the anchor and her interviewee, a “renowned” criminal psychologist. Ben watched the interview idly. He already knew where this was going.

“Well, you need to account for the vulnerability of today’s youth,” the psychologist said, “Which is something we cannot blame them for. There are a vast number of influences that the latest generation is exposed to. Media violence is one of them. Even in fictional forms…”

Ben clenched his fist and forced himself to ignore the broadcast. Instead, he focused his attention on the notebook. He opened the cover and found a few lines scribbled in an incomprehensible language. Even the letters did not resemble any familiar alphabet.

 _Maybe it’s some sort of occult book_ , Ben thought. _Great job, Ben. That’s exactly the kind of thing everyone needs in their house._

He flipped to the next page. It was written in English:

_“Death Note_

_How to Use It”_

_An occult book with an instruction manual_. _Convenient._

He read on:

“ _The human whose name is written in this note shall die. This note shall not take effect unless the writer has the person’s face in their mind while writing his/her name. Therefore, people sharing the same name will not be effected_.”

_Must be another urban legend. The Death Note. They sure are creative with these names._

“ _If the cause of death is written within the next 40 seconds of writing the person’s name, it will happen. If the cause of death is not specified, the person will die of a heart attack. After writing the cause of death, details of the death should be written in the next 6 minutes and 40 seconds.”_

_A very technical urban legend, or an elaborate prank._

“ _The note shall become the property of the human world, once it touches the ground (arrives in) the human world. The owner of the note can recognize the image and voice of the original owner, i.e. a Shinigami. The human who uses the notebook can go to neither Heaven nor Hell._ ”

The page ended there. The rest were blank. Ben shut the book and set it on the empty seat next to him.                It was ridiculous, though he had to give credit to the prankster who’d gone through the trouble of making the Death Note. Ben imagined they’d been watching from a few floors above when he picked up the notebook. They were probably mocking him now. The thought made him frown.

The train pulled to a stop. Ben eyed the Death Note and considered leaving it behind to scare some gullible passenger. It didn’t seem to have further use.

The doors slid open and the other passengers began to file out. Ben gritted his teeth and placed the Death Note in his backpack. There was nothing wrong with keeping a harmless trinket, even if it was useless.

 

Ben got home later than usual that night, having missed his usual train, and was greeted by no one. Well, no human, that is. Chewie was waiting at the door as usual. The Chow Chow panted heavily as Ben stroked his fur and barked softly when the latter left to heat up dinner.

“If you’re waiting for the old man, he’s not coming,” Ben said. “At least not for another day… if he’s feeling homesick.”

The dog whined and stared intently at the door. Ben had read somewhere that dogs liked having their family “pack” together due to their wolf ancestry. If that was true, Chewie had far too much wolf in him for the Solo family.

Ben’s phone buzzed in his pocket – a single text from his mother:

“ _Late from work. There’s food in the fridge. Love you_.”

He didn’t bother to respond. He glanced at the line of messages from the previous week, all of which were more or less identical, before shutting his phone off. He tried to remember where his father had gone on business (business was a euphemism for something illicit, Ben was sure) but decided not to think too much about it.

A few of Ben’s peers had asked him whether he felt smothered living with his parents. Well, smothering wasn’t exactly a problem saying that they were never around. As far as he was concerned, it was a decent deal. He got the house all to himself about 18 hours of the day and didn’t have to pay for room and board – cheaper with minimal family interference.

The evening was uneventful. After his typical frozen dinner and a few finishing touches on his assignments, Ben lay back in his bed and groaned, flipping through channels on the television absentmindedly.

 _The owner of the note can recognize Shinigami_ , he mused. _Not sure what a Shinigami is, but I guess I’m the owner. Maybe I should be seeing ghosts now. That would give Mom a heart attack if I told her that…_

He’d placed the Death Note on the nightstand atop a pile of half-read books. He glanced at it, still wondering why he’d bothered keeping the thing. It was probably filthy, which meant he’d better hide it from his mother. She would throw a fit if she knew he’d brought in some piece of junk from the street.

 _So, what’s the owner supposed to do? Write their name on it?_ _No. Can’t do that. That would kill me._ He let out a short, humorless laugh. _Creative suicide, I suppose…_

He turned the television to the evening news. A scene with flashing police lights gave him pause. The report was divided between the live footage and a flustered anchor on the other side. The headline, _“Hostage Crisis at CoCo Night Club – Reports on Negotiations”_ , was scrolling at the bottom of the screen.

“We have limited information on the crisis at the moment,” the anchor said. “But police have narrowed down the identity of the suspect. Suspect Hugo Bartyn is thought to have entered the nightclub earlier this evening with a concealed weapon…”

A picture of the suspect, a middle-aged man with cold eyes, appeared on the screen. Over the next week, this man’s face would be ubiquitous across every news station. Thinking of this infamous publicity made Ben’s blood boil.

 _“It can’t be helped,”_ His father’s voice echoed in his head. “ _I can tell you, kid, you’re gonna see a lot of ugly in this world, but there’s nothing you can do. You’ve got to learn that sometime…”_

But he hadn’t learned. He hadn’t outgrown the inexorable need for action, immediate action when the situation was urgent enough. His thoughts drifted to the Death Note.

He doubted it would work. No. He was _certain_ it wouldn’t work, but perhaps this test would put an end to his inexplicable fascination with the Death Note. Besides, in the implausible event that the Death Note was real, Bartyn seemed like a worthy test subject.

Ben carried the Death Note to his desk and turned back to the TV. Bartyn’s face was still there, with the suspect’s name written underneath. According to the instructions in the notebook, that was all he needed to kill…

“Hugo Bartyn”, he wrote in black ink on the first blank page.

 _40 seconds_. He looked down at his watch. Bartyn was supposedly set to die of a heart attack at 11:00:10 PM.

 _20 more seconds._ The scene hadn’t changed. Still the glare of flashing lights, the distant moan of a siren, the occasional silhouette of a policeman…

 _10 more seconds_. Nothing yet. Ben wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the report.

_3… 2… 1…_

Nothing happened. The police remained stationed outside the nightclub while the reporters chattered away with pointless speculations.

Ben felt his face flush. He glowered at the notebook and seized it from the desk, getting ready to hurl it into the trashcan before the hoax humiliated him further…

“ _What’s this?_ ”

The startled voice of the news anchor brought Ben’s attention back to the screen. The doors of the nightclub had opened. People, the hostages, he presumed, were flooding out. Several policemen entered the building while the others looked on, perplexed by the scene unfolding before them.

“We’ve just received reports from CoCo Nightclub,” the anchor said, her eyes wide with shock. “Witnesses inside the nightclub report that the suspect, Hugo Bartyn, ‘suddenly collapsed’. Authorities have yet to confirm whether these accounts are true and whether the suspect is dead or unconscious. We will keep you updated as more information comes in…”

Ben froze. Surely there was another explanation. It was a coincidence. Strange fate had killed this man. Sudden heart attacks weren’t unheard of. Regardless, it wasn’t Ben’s fault. It _couldn’t_ be his fault. He wasn’t a murderer…

But the timing, the manner of death… it was too eerily precise to be a coincidence…

He looked down to the Death Note and he was shocked to notice his hands were trembling. He closed his eyes, angered by his anxiety. He needed to calm down. There was nothing to panic about…

Unless he had killed a man…

He was too old to believe in fairy tales and witchcraft, but there was something about the Death Note that set it apart from other myths. It was too methodical in its function, not at all like the stories of limitless and spontaneous black magic. This quality allowed it to be tested and verified like any other device, and if the tests proved true, Ben had found something truly incredible.

He stared at the page where he had written Hugo Bartyn’s name. Surely, one could not become a murderer so easily, so innocently. One could kill with simple motions, the pull of a trigger or the push of a button, but killing was not murder, especially if it was justified.

Law enforcement dealt out executions to criminals like Bartyn with ease. No one tried them for murder, and they were incompetent too. What Ben had done, if Bartyn’s death was indeed his doing, was cleaner, better thought out. What was more, it had _saved lives_. One could even go so far as to call it noble. Bartyn’s death was not murder. It was a well-managed execution carried out with a peculiar but efficient weapon.

Ben narrowed his eyes and made up his mind: he needed to test the Death Note again.

 

That night, the rules of the Death Note slithered through Ben’s dreams like the dying strains of an ancient mantra. He awoke with a jolt without knowing what had startled him. He turned to the clock on his nightstand. 2:32 AM. Too early to wake up.

Groaning, he rolled over in bed and gazed blankly out the window. The silhouettes of tree branches were visible against the sickly glow of the streetlights. They swayed as the wind blew through them, painting dark patterns onto his bedroom floor.

Suddenly, the branches were enveloped by a larger shadow. Ben blinked and the shadow disappeared. He slid out of bed and lumbered over to the window. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He was about to return to bed when he saw two burning eyes staring back at him.

Ben recoiled and bumped into his nightstand. Wincing in pain, he took a tentative step forward. The eyes were gone. He cursed under his breath and went back to bed, attributing the mirage to the late hour and bizarre events of the previous day.

 

Outside Ben’s bedroom, an unseen presence took up vigil. He had little interest in exploring the human world (even if he were able to) having never held it in high esteem, though his own was one of bone and dust. He was tempted to enter the house now and begin his game but sensed that the time was not right. It was all well. His desolate world had taught him patience. He would wait to show himself another day. For now, he was contented to watch.


	2. Resolve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left kudos for this story. It really means a lot to me.
> 
> Something I'd like to mention: The way the Shinigami work in this story diverges from some aspects of the Shinigami in Death Note. Since I am using a few Star Wars characters as Shinigami, their physical appearance will differ from Star Wars canon.

The following morning, Ben reviewed the rules of the Death Note. He needed a plan that would call upon all the capabilities of the Death Note to succeed, a test that was methodical, prudent and timely all at once. Only then could he purge the possibility of coincidence.

Ben sighed. Thinking about it in those terms sounded too much like murder. Where he fell along the boundary depended entirely on the subject, how deserving they were of death.

“40 seconds to specify the cause of death,” he muttered, tapping his pen on the fifth note of the page entitled “ _How to Use It_ ”. “6 minutes and 40 seconds to write the details.”

The question was _how_ detailed the death could be. The Death Note surpassed normal limits, but it was probably best not to attempt anything too impossible. For now, proof of control over the time and cause of death would be enough.

Ben briefly considered scanning the news for live crime reports but dismissed the idea. A television report would not suffice for all the details. He needed to witness the death in person. Still, the media was probably the best place to find a test subject.

He found Dean Lado whilst searching for armed robberies online. Apparently, the man was wanted for murder and burglary. Despite having escaped arrest, he had been sighted in a neighborhood near the Monument Plaza shopping district. Ben was in the middle of reading the details of the crime when he heard footsteps coming down the stairs. He quickly tucked the Death Note away in his coat.

“Morning, Mom,” he murmured.

“You’re up early,” Leia remarked. Chewie ran over to greet her, nudging her hand for a pat. “What were you doing last night?”

Ben shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. The drink was unpleasantly cold.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Sounded like you knocked something over,” Leia said. She sat down at the dining table in front of him and nodded towards the mug of coffee. “Is that all you’re eating?”

“I had some eggs earlier,” Ben replied. He glanced down to check that the Death Note was out of sight. “And I couldn’t sleep. I must’ve bumped into something on the way to the bathroom. That’s all.”

 It wasn’t entirely a lie. There wasn’t any point in mentioning the mirage in the window, anyway. The last thing he needed was to be on antipsychotic meds on top of everything, and if his parents decided to deal with his most recent delusions the same way they had earlier incidents, the risk wasn’t out of the question. Fortunately, his mother wasn’t the type to pry.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Leia said.

“What?” Ben asked, though he could already guess the subject.

“It’s about your schedule,” Leia explained. “My campaign manager and I were hoping to get some candid footage of the family for an ad…”

“If it’s really candid footage, they wouldn’t need to organize a time slot,” Ben muttered.

“I know, Ben,” Leia sighed. “But if we want to be practical, we need a set time…”

“And a script,” Ben added.

“That’s enough,” his mother said sharply. “Now, as I was saying, I’d like to have you and your father, Uncle Luke, a bit of the dog…”

Chewie whined from underneath the table. Ben scratched the back of the dog’s head.

_Yeah, I know_ , he thought. _I don’t like politics either, boy._

“Uncle Luke should be able to drop by whenever is convenient,” Leia went on.

“Isn’t he busy?” Ben said before he could stop himself. “Doesn’t he have a case he’s investigating? Or did they give up on that one too…”

“ _Ben_!”

A few breaths of silence passed between them before Leia pushed the subject again. Her tone was curt, though it came across more as exasperation than bitterness:

“I know you don’t care for politics. The election’s in three months. Once that’s over, you won’t have to worry about campaigning for at least another year. All I ask is that you bear with this till then.”

“Okay, _okay_ ,” Ben growled. “Don’t expect any Oscar-winning acting though. Just let me know when your manager’s coming over.”

He rose from his seat and headed towards the door. His mother watched him skeptically.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Meeting some friends,” Ben lied. “Guys I met in class. You don’t know them.”

“How long are you going to be gone? Chewie needs to be walked and I’ve got a meeting at 3…”

“I’ll be back by then.”

With that, Ben slammed the door behind him and started down the street. He stopped at a bench two blocks away. After digging in his pocket for a pen, he laid out his plan in the Death Note.

His watch read 7:10 AM, plenty of time to get to Monument Plaza. Once he was there, all he had to do was wait. He smiled down at his latest decree:

“ _Dean Lado – he will attempt a robbery at the Duchess Boutique at Monument Plaza at 8:00 in the morning. Immediately after exiting the store, he will be killed by a speeding car._ ”

 

At 7:55 AM, Ben assumed his watch in a café over a cup of espresso. He had a clear view of Duchess Boutique from his table. There was nothing strictly stopping him from observing the test from a closer spot, but the last thing he needed was someone questioning him about loitering. It was better to blend in.

He was starting to wish he had set an earlier time, but the 6 minute and 40 second-long window for changes had already passed. He rapped his fingers against the table, listening absentmindedly to the strains of conversations in the café. It was oddly empty for a weekend. The only customers besides himself were an elderly couple at the table adjacent to him and a young woman who seemed to be intent on giving herself diabetes with a single drink order.

“ _Medium vanilla macchiato_ ,” the girl told the barista, who was frantically scribbling the order onto a plastic cup. “ _Caramel syrup and extra whipped cream with room for creamer_ …”

A chorus of shouts erupted across the street at exactly 8:00. Ben strained his eyes to see inside the shop but could only make out a few shadows in the boutique windows. The elderly couple had moved to the window. They were soon joined by the woman who had just retrieved her sugar-laden beverage.

The doors of the boutique burst open and a man dashed out. One hand gripped a gun. The other was holding a bag, presumably containing whatever money or goods he’d decided were worth stealing. He rushed into the road.

A car horn blared from down the street. The driver slammed on his breaks to no avail. Before he could see the approaching vehicle, Dean Lado was knocked across the road.

Ben felt his blood run cold. His heart hammered in his chest as he made his way to the window to see if the impossible had proven true. He caught a glimpse of Lado’s corpse before a crowd gripped by morbid curiosity closed around it. The body was lying at a crooked angle. The head was bent back on a snapped neck, lying in a blossoming pool of blood, the red hue almost imperceptible against the black asphalt. Lado’s eyes were turned towards the sky, a veil of premature horror painted over the pupils.

There was no place for victory in this picture. The excitement over Bartyn’s death was only a discordant memory now. The curiosity disappeared as Ben left the café. He felt like he was floating rather than walking, having no direction in mind, but he needed to get away. _Immediately_.

               

Ben barely remembered how he made it home from Monument Plaza. What he did remember was slamming his bedroom door shut and being horribly sick in the bathroom sink. His hands shook as he clutched the edge of the counter and glimpsed Lado’s lifeless eyes reflected back in place of his own in the mirror.

Suddenly, his ears were ringing with what sounded like laughter. He flung open the door open and rushed into his bedroom, searching for the source of the sound. The room was silent. He descended the stairs and found that the house was empty, with the exception of Chewie who cocked his head in confusion at the sight of his disheveled owner.

Ben slumped down at the couch and laid his face in his hands, mulling over why this time, when part of him had already known what to expect, he’d been so shaken by the effects of the Death Note. There was no questioning it now. The Death Note was real and it held the power not only to kill but to control. A seasoned criminal who had outwitted the police on several occasions had just robbed a low-end boutique in broad daylight before being killed in exactly the way Ben had prescribed. No natural power could ever extend so far, and that was precisely the reason he needed to end it.

There was a box of matches under the kitchen sink. He could burn the Death Note in the backyard, collecting the ashes in the grill. Perhaps the neighbors would question the smoke, but that wasn’t anything he couldn’t talk his way out of. So long as he could get rid of the damned thing, the worst of his problems would be gone.

He placed the Death Note beside the matches on the dining table and paused, cursing his hesitance. He ought to have been happy to get rid of the Death Note early on, before anyone else found out. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could start forgetting.

But another voice stayed his hand. Less than a day ago, he had decided he’d done no wrong. He was killing people righteously, not out of greed or spite. How could he forfeit this opportunity?

Muttering expletives to himself, Ben put the matches back in the kitchen counter. He picked up the Death Note and scowled. He would keep it to appease the reckless side of him. So long as he didn’t actually use it, everything would be fine.

“ _There is something charming about it, don’t you think_?”

Ben whipped around and held back a scream. There was a man, no, a creature, stooped over him. It was taller than any human he’d ever seen, at least 7 feet. Skeletal wings stretched forth from its back. The creature met his horrified gaze with steady eyes, burning blood red against tattered skin.

“Too charming to destroy,” the creature sneered. “Though I doubt you truly believed you could be rid of it so easily. You seem like a clever boy, Ben Solo, much more than I expected.”

Scanning the room for the nearest weapon, Ben darted across the kitchen and grabbed a knife. The creature didn’t follow him. It merely turned its head, regarding the shining blade with disdain.

“Don’t bother,” the creature laughed and Ben recognized the cackle as the noise he’d heard in the bathroom. “That won’t do any good. Shinigami are not so easily harmed, especially not by such insubstantial human implements.”

“Get away from me!” Ben snarled, trying to suppress the quaver in his voice.

“I question what gives you the right to ask me to leave,” the creature said. “Especially since you robbed me.”

The Shinigami extended a bony finger to the Death Note.

“You’re… you’re the owner?” Ben asked, still pointing the knife at the creature hovering before him.

“I was,” the Shinigami said. He grinned. “I suppose ‘robbed’ would be the wrong word, since I did relinquish it to you willingly. Having read my instructions, I’m surprised you don’t know that. I’m also surprised you weren’t expecting me.”

“ _Expecting you_?!” Ben thought back to the instructions in the Death Note and muttered to himself, “The image and voice of the original owner…”

He steadied his gaze on his unwanted visitor and said with, all the confidence he could muster:

“You’re a Shinigami, then?”

“Yes,” the creature said, nodding. “I see you _have_ read my message. Humans are more diligent than I thought, though you seem to be an exception.”

“I don’t suppose you have a name,” Ben said, cold sweat dripping from his hands. “You… already know mine.”

“Snoke,” said the Shinigami. “And yes, I’ve been watching you for long enough to know that.”

Snoke’s ghoulish grin widened as the introduction brought him sadistic pleasure. He, the Shinigami, the hallucination, _whatever the hell this thing was_ , didn’t seem to be in a hurry to reveal his larger purpose. For now, he was content to see what terror he could bring. Ben was determined not to give him that satisfaction. If this was a losing battle, he wasn’t going down in fear.

“I should have expected as much,” Ben said, lowering the knife. “The… the Death Note was yours to begin with, and now, you’ve come for it. You’ve come to take it back.”

“That is where you are mistaken,” Snoke sneered.

Before Ben could question the Shinigami further, the front door swung open. Chewie let out a howl and ran to the foyer, passing by Snoke on the way without even a whimper of worry. This was not right. Surely, a devoted guard dog would not miss such a hellish intruder.

“Ben? You home?”

Ben’s father seemed dedicated to coming home at the worst of times, but this was a new record. Stalling wouldn’t be enough, not with a demon of sorts hovering around the house.

Ben hurried to the entrance of the kitchen and came face to face with his father.

“Dad,” Ben said. “O-of course I’m home. It’s the weekend after all…”

“Figured,” Han Solo grumbled. “I guess your mother’s out. Move over. I need a drink.”

Before his son could stop him, Han shoved his way into the kitchen. He walked straight through Snoke as if the Shinigami were made of vapor and proceeded to rummage through the fridge, oblivious to the inhuman eyes blazing down at him.

“What’s up with you?” Han asked, raising an eyebrow.

Ben, who had been looking on in shock, turned to his father, trying to gather his senses enough to say something, _anything_ remotely normal. He glared at Snoke, wondering what new plague of lunacy had finally pushed him over the edge.

“Nothing,” Ben said. “Just… thinking about something… for school. Last week was rough.”

His mother would have been immediately suspicious, having endured many of Ben’s diatribes about what a bore his university was. Fortunately, his father was another matter.

“Huh,” was all Han said in response. He reached down to stroke Chewie’s fur. “Anyone let Chewie out yet?”

“Not yet,” Ben replied, surprised by how steady his voice was now. Maybe he’d finally given up trying to make sense of the day’s events. Surrender was the key to normalcy, wasn’t it?

“Not even in the front yard?” Han gave his son an accusing frown. “I thought you’ve been home all day.”

“I never said I was home all day,” Ben snapped. “I said I’m home now. I just got back from lunch…”

But his father’s attention had turned elsewhere. Han was staring quizzically at the Death Note, which was still on the dining table. It was a careless move and Ben knew it. Though he’d had plenty of distractions to account for a little slip.

“What’s this?” Han asked.

“Just notes for class,” Ben said, snatching up the Death Note. “I was studying in here.”

“‘Death Note’,” Han chuckled. “What the hell are you studying in that school?”

“It’s just something one of my idiot friends scribbled on the cover,” Ben said. “It’s probably a song reference or something? I don’t know. We were just fooling around.”

Han shrugged and muttered something about “weird kids”.

“Well, I’m taking Chewie for a walk,” he said. “I’ll be back around dinner time. Any idea what we’re eating tonight?”

“I know for sure Mom’s not cooking,” Ben replied. “Unless the cooking’s part of her campaign ad.”

“There’s always take-out.”

“Better than frozen pizza.”

Han nodded and left with the dog. Once the door had shut behind them, Ben leaned back on the kitchen counter and heaved a heavy sigh.

“What was that?” Ben seethed. He didn’t even know who or what he was talking to anymore. Part of him expected Snoke to fade into thin air at any moment now.

“Only those who touch the Death Note can see me,” Snoke laughed. It was a cold laugh, like metal pieces clanging together. “Your father was quite close to doing so. Had you not been wise enough to stop him, we would have trouble indeed.”

Ben’s eyes darted to the cabinet with the matches. It wasn’t too late to burn the Death Note, though Ben was beginning to worry what would happen if he tried.

“You aren’t real,” he said, praying that he was speaking to himself.

“And that isn’t real either, I suppose,” Snoke retorted, indicating the Death Note. “Very well. Soon, you will come to know better. Then perhaps, I can show you a few… tricks.”

“Is that what you came to do?” Ben shook his head. He stalked over to the knife on the counter. For whatever insipid reason, he still felt safer holding it. “Show me tricks?”

“Perhaps, but that is not what I am here for.” Snoke swooped closer. It took all of Ben’s willpower not to flinch back. “I came to watch you, to see the course of the Death Note in the human world.”

“That’s all?” Ben asked. He received no reply. Forcing himself to look the Shinigami straight in the eyes, he said:

“Then you must be disappointed. I’m not going to use the Death Note. Not anymore.”

Snoke seemed neither dismayed nor surprised by this pronouncement.

“You may be a clever one, Ben Solo,” he said. “But a human nonetheless, and human resolve is fragile. The change will come, and I will be there to witness it.”

 

The sound of the bathroom sink running made Ben’s eyes snap open. He was alone, once again staring at his own harried face in the mirror. The image of the Shinigami remained plastered in his thoughts, too vivid to deny. He hadn’t been dreaming. The kitchen knife clutched in his hand confirmed it.

The Death Note was lying on his pillow like an innocuous story book. Ben dropped it in his desk drawer, buried underneath a pile of textbooks. It wasn’t a solution, but for now, there were none to be found.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, comments are appreciated so long as they aren't hate rants. I'd love to hear what you guys think and feedback is really valuable for me as a writer. Constructive criticism is welcome. I'll try to update this as often as I can.


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